


Step Away from the Blonde

by SinisterFiction (TheVineSpeaketh)



Series: And This is My Boyfriend, His Name is Satan [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Clubbing, Demons, Devils, M/M, Minor Violence, Mugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/SinisterFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who the fuck are you?” the guy without his boot on Enjolras said. He was the closest to the mouth of the alley, Enjolras remembered, so he’d probably be the first to see someone coming in or passing by.</p><p>“You know me,” the man replied, and Enjolras couldn’t crane his head to look. “Hell, everybody knows me. How about you step away from the blonde and go back home to your hard drives full of porn, okay? This can be easy for you.”</p><p>Beginning of a new series. Stay tuned for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step Away from the Blonde

**Author's Note:**

> I was very inspired by that post going around tumblr (which I can't for the life of me find, and therefore link to...) where a guy ends up going out with Satan. I hope you enjoy this!

It was around midnight when Enjolras left the club, more than confident despite his unsteady gait that he could make it the block it took to get to Jehan’s apartment to sleep off all the alcohol he’d just drunk. Finals week had finally come to a close, and Enjolras had only one last semester before he could call himself a free human being; that had been more than enough to goad him into going out and partying all night, though the group invitation sent out by a very enthusiastic Courfeyrac and Jehan hadn’t hurt any, either.

Enjolras had gotten to Jehan’s apartment (where they’d asked everyone to meet up) and the group as a whole had started walking down the street, already buzzing with excitement as they talked about the schedule on their final semester and how they had saved some lackadaisical courses for their final semester so they could cap off their studies with some easy As. Enjolras had been engaged in a conversation with Combeferre about, surprise surprise, the future, which had gotten him a little depressed. Combeferre had been his roommate since freshman year, and they’d become fast friends, along with all the other Amis in their group. He’d come to miss them if they should ever part ways, and what with graduation being so close and the future beyond that being completely unclear, he thought that it could be a very real possibility.

Courfeyrac, though, had faithfully pulled himself between the two and pulled their heads down so he could press his temples to each of theirs (because he was the shortest of the three, and he lamented his short status every day of his life) and told them to stop being depressing, because they would never separate if they could help it. Courfeyrac’s declaration was met with a round of hearty cheers coming from the group, and Enjolras’s smile reappeared as if it had never left.

Their arrival at the club was a mere fifteen minutes after they’d left Jehan’s place, and they immediately took to ordering drinks, passing their booze around as they tried everyone else’s. The drinks were wonderful, and soon, their bodies loosened up and took to the dance floor. Even Enjolras, not typically known for his dancing, began to writhe in time to the music, feeling freer than he had in a very long while.

Hours passed in the blink of an eye, and soon Enjolras was feeling a bit nauseous, his good temper settling down as his stomach began to protest all the drinks he had. He stumbled over to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who looked like they were in the middle of a very serious conversation, and told them, “I’m going home.”

Combeferre took one look at him and said, “not without me, you aren’t,” and had begun to rise from his seat, but Courfeyrac had pressed a hand to his chest, easing him back down where he sat. Combeferre shot him what appeared to be a glare, though Enjolras couldn’t fathom why he’d be angry with Courf. The three of them were usually very close, and Combeferre had more than proved that he could take whatever Courf could dish out for the past three years. Were they arguing?

“Don’t hail a cab, sunshine,” Courfeyrac said, grinning like nothing was wrong. “Just walk down to Jehan’s. It isn’t very far. He’s got a few places set up in case anybody wanted to crash at his. I don’t think you’d make it to the front door if you tried to get a cab home.”

Enjolras nodded, even as Combeferre was shaking his head. “Yeah, okay,” he said, looking around for the door. “I’d much rather do that.”

“Enjolras, I don’t want you walking home alone—”

Enjolras waved his hand dismissively, spotting the door in the distance and checking his pockets for his wallet and keys, just in case. “Don’t worry about me, Ferre,” he said, giving them one last look. “Just stay here and sort out whatever this is.” He flapped his hand in between them. Combeferre gave him a strange look.

“There’s nothing—”

“Nighty night, Ferre,” he said, already moving toward the door. “And Courf.”

“Nighty night, Enj,” Courfeyrac’s chipper voice called from behind him, and Enjolras entered a pensive state as he headed out the door and into the night air.

If Enjolras had been paying attention as he walked out into the night, he might have noticed how the streets were mostly bare at this hour, or how the streetlamps caught the tiniest flurries of snow in their shine, though none of it stuck to the ground just yet. He also might have noticed how the alleys were dark even under the bright sky, lit by the reflection of lamps all over the city and the solitary presence of the moon. He saw none of it, though, because his mind was a tempest of thoughts about Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and what could possibly be getting between them to the point of which Combeferre would ever glare at Courfeyrac.

Was it something Courfeyrac did? He pondered this to himself as he passed an alley that was actually inhabited by three figures, all of whom turned to look at him as he went by. Why was Courf acting like everything was alright? He thought about this as he looked pensively at the ground and keep his footsteps as coordinated as possible, not noticing how the figures emerged from the alley, having just pulled on ski masks with shaking hands, their bodies thrumming with so much adrenaline they were practically electric. Were Combeferre and Courfeyrac not going to be friends anymore, if they couldn’t fix whatever had happened?

That thought actually made Enjolras stop and look up, his breath leaving him in one short huff, his body shot through with the icy fingertips of despair.

“Oh, no,” he murmured quietly to himself, just before a hand latched onto his hair.

He staggered backward, his body pitifully uncoordinated as the hand in his hair twisted and tightened, tugging him backward far enough that he fell into the solid body behind him, the man’s free hand coming over Enjolras’s face to clap onto his mouth. Without hesitation, Enjolras bit at the hand, his teeth getting caught in the fabric of his glove as his assailant tried to pull his hand away, and Enjolras nearly fell onto his head as his legs were scooped up by another masked man. Together, they bodily carried him into the alley from whence they came.

Enjolras squirmed as hard as he could all throughout, and in the end, they dropped him, his head hitting the ground more than it probably should have. Alcohol dimmed his perception as he looked blindly up, trying to scry their faces from the pitch blackness, his search coming up completely empty.

“Gimme your wallet and your keys,” one of the guys said, his voice gruff beneath his mask.

Enjolras’s head was swimming, and he tried to speak, but instead he let out a pitiful groan as his head throbbed. Suddenly, he was being hoisted up by the fabric of his jacket, being pulled to his feet and held so he could look into his eyes. The man’s gaze was fierce, but Enjolras’s answering one was even more so.

“I _said_ ,” the guy grit out, but that was all he could get to before Enjolras was steadying his hands on his shoulders and headbutting him, the top of his head crashing into the man’s nose, which crumpled with a sickening crunch. The man cried out, hands cupping over his nose as he staggered back, and Enjolras could barely catch his feet before a fist pounded into his cheekbone, sending him crumbling to the ground.

Enjolras, who had been in plenty of fights before, realized suddenly that they were very much an amateur group; if they had been serial robbers, they would have punched Enjolras in the temple instead of the cheek, and would have kept themselves hidden if they could. If he had been sober, Enjolras might have been able to take the other two, or at least make a getaway. But as it stood, he was drunk and sluggish, his head was pounding relentlessly, and his cheek was now blossoming with pain.

“Gimme your fucking money, man!” one of the others—presumably the one who punched him just now—said, putting his boot on Enjolras’s back where he was trying to push himself up from the ground, effectively making him lose his balance and slide to the ground again. The boot relocated to his head, pressing against his bruised cheek, and Enjolras let out a cry. “We aren’t fucking around here!”

“Aren’t you? Looks like a game to me.”

Enjolras froze at the new voice, a chill coming up his spine before he could stop it. This guy sounded a lot more confident than the other two—were these guys thugs on some drug lord’s turf? Was he about to listen to two mooks get murdered in an alley?

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy without his boot on Enjolras said. He was the closest to the mouth of the alley, Enjolras remembered, so he’d probably be the first to see someone coming in or passing by.

“You know me,” the man replied, and Enjolras couldn’t crane his head to look. “Hell, everybody knows me. How about you step away from the blonde and go back home to your hard drives full of porn, okay? This can be easy for you.”

One of the guys scoffed and said, “He’s a joke,” while the one on top of Enjolras said, “Let’s fuck him up.”

The free guy didn’t hesitate. The sound of footsteps could be heard, a bit of shuffling going on, before there was suddenly gasping, muffled sounds as if somebody was trying to speak, and then actual _screaming_. Enjolras winced as the boot lifted suddenly from his head, barely gaining any of his bearings before he was kicked in the jaw, rolling over and effectively being pushed off to the side. The other guy’s screams died with a sick crack, and it was boot guy’s turn to scream.

“I told you we could do this nicely,” the voice said, and Enjolras was once again consumed by a chill he couldn’t ignore. The boot guy was screaming as the acrid smell of burning flesh seared through the air. Enjolras’s vision was swimming and he couldn’t get up, but he was able to pull his jacket over his nose and try not to gag.

The voice kept talking, sounding more and more sinister as it went on, reaching a register far too low and scratchy to be real. “You didn’t fucking listen.” Boot guy was still screaming. It seemed like the voice didn’t care. “Do you know what I’m doing right now? I’ll tell you right now. I’m branding you. And now I’m going to let you go.”

True to his word, Enjolras could hear boot guy staggering away from him. He backed up enough that Enjolras could see him, pushing himself against the wall, his hand wrapped around his wrist, the fabric around it bloodstained and burnt away, smoke rising from his arm. Tears were streaming down his face as he openly cried, his eyes locked in terror on the thing standing at the mouth of the alley.

The voice went on. Enjolras didn’t even know if he’d moved a single step since he got here. “Your friend is dead. The other one’s going to be dead in two seconds.” Two seconds later, there was another snap. Enjolras ducked his head into his jacket and tried to breathe evenly, trying not to throw up. Boot guy’s sobs raised in intensity.

“You’re not going to die tonight,” the voice said, almost reaching a normal register again. “But I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. I’ve marked you. That burn in your skin carries my sigil, so any time I want you, I’ll know where you are.” Boot guy lifted his arm, looking down at the skin. Enjolras couldn’t see what it was from here, but whatever it was, boot guy’s horrified look raised tenfold. He looked back at the opening of the alley. “You owe me for your life. You owe me for sparing you. When I call upon you, you’d better answer.” There was a shuffling of feet. “Now fuck off.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. He was off like a shot almost immediately, bypassing Enjolras and supposedly the voice, sprinting until his footsteps could no longer be heard. Then, there was nothing but silence. Enjolras realized, with a sudden startled clarity, that he was left alone with the voice.

He was quiet and still, breathing into his jacket and trying not to make any noise, listening for any sudden movement or sound. His head was still pounding, his cheek throbbing, and pain took residence in his jaw, but he kept his haggard breaths deep and subtle, hoping that the figure would think he was passed out or something. Being passed out was definitely an enviable state of affairs at this point.

Instead of taking the bait, though, the voice began to move, his footsteps growing nearer and nearer to Enjolras until they were right behind his head. Enjolras didn’t dare move, almost stopped breathing, but then he heard someone’s knees popping as if he was kneeling, and then a hand pressed gently onto his shoulder. Enjolras allowed himself to give, his body rolling over onto his back, his eyes opening. The sight above him did not make him scream and did not fill him with terror. Instead of shouting or growing afraid, Enjolras merely stared up at the man leaning over him, his brows furrowing in confusion.

For leaning over him was not some demonic creature, like the voice had led him to believe, but a man with concern etched between his eyebrows and tapering downward the edge of his lips. His hands, calloused and familiar, ran over Enjolras’s cheek and his jaw, and his eyes scanned him for injury. No, this was no monster kneeling down and looking him over. Enjolras was fairly certain monsters did not do such things.

For a moment, they were there in silence, the blue eyes taking him in, that concern washing over him in strange waves. This was an unusual circumstance. Finally, though, after much deliberation, Enjolras allowed himself to breathe out the question that sat heavy on his tongue.

“Grantaire?”

The small, sheepish smile he received in answer spoke volumes.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)


End file.
